


he blames the upholstery

by stereokem



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Author inexplicably obsessed with Harry's couch, Eggsy POV, Fluff, Humor, I've been told it's very cute, M/M, Massive fluff, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(The furniture knows something you don’t.) </p><p>//</p><p>  <i>When, five whole weeks after the church massacre and V-day, none other than Harry Hart walks through the front doors of Kingsman HQ, looking fresh as a fucking daisy, Gary “Eggsy” Unwin has all of three thoughts: </i></p><p>  <i>The first consists only of a string of incomprehensible profanities. The second is a broken record player of “I thought you were dead”. </i></p><p>  <i>The third is: “Shit. I wacked off all over your sofa.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I, II, III

**Author's Note:**

> There are multiple parts to this (at least 9), all drabble-chaps. I will be posting them regularly in sets of 3. 
> 
> Also, if you have read "a dram each" . . . consider this my apology for that story.
> 
> Rated M for Masturbatory references.

* * *

**I.**

When, five whole weeks after the church massacre and V-day, none other than Harry Hart walks through the front doors of Kingsman HQ, looking fresh as a fucking daisy, Gary “Eggsy” Unwin has all of three thoughts:

The first consists only of a string of incomprehensible profanities. The second is a broken record player of “I thought you were dead”.

The third is: “Shit. I wacked off all over your sofa.”

Fortunately, at any given moment, Eggsy’s brain-to-mouth filter is only working at about a third of full capacity. So while, in his shock, the first two things make it out of his mouth, the third thing sticks firmly behind his teeth. That his heart is attempting to jump out of his ribcage and flop like a dead fish on the floor is an entirely different matter.

He sort of feels like he’s dying. It’s terrifying, but not all that terrible.

Harry Hart looks at him fully. He graces Eggsy with a smile that is warm, genuine, and almost relieved. Eggsy doesn’t feel quite real. He has so many questions to ask. He wants to slug Harry. He wants to hug him.

Somehow, he knows this is not a very English thing to do, not a very Harry Hart thing to do.

One of Harry’s large hands finds his shoulder; it squeezes, reassuring, and Harry’s voice is gentle but firm. All in good time, he says. I will tell you all in good time; but right now, I need to speak to Merlin. Immediately.

When Harry’s hand leaves his shoulder, it feels like a bird taking off. He’s gone in a whirlwind of suit and single-mindedness.

Eggsy is left staring at the empty space before him. He has a fourth thought, which he says aloud, though no one is around to hear.

“I’m so fucked.”

 

 

 

 **II.**  

The wank, he tells himself, had been purely perfunctory in nature.

This is actually quite believable. When he says it only to himself.

Not that he would tell anyone else about it—god, he would never, _never_ live it down. As far as he knows, there are no cameras in Harry’s house, and there was no one around to see him, so the only other pair of eyes present had belonged to Mr. Pickles, who had been shut away in the bathroom, and therefore saw nothing and could tell no one.

(How he thinks a taxidermied dog could possibly rat him out, he has no clue.)

Christ, it wasn’t like he’d gone there with the _intention_ of wacking off. Nothing even remotely sexual had been on his mind when he quietly unlocked Harry’s door and let himself in.

It had become a post-mission ritual of sorts, going to Harry’s. The house was unoccupied, but Kingsman policy dictated that a two-month period should pass before the house and its contents were repurposed. Eggsy had filched a key the second time he had been here (when Harry had left him here, left him with the promise of returning, however irate). There was so little downtime at Kingsman, and what time he did have he tried to spend with his mum and Daisy; this gave him little respite.

So he came here. After missions, after days that made him feel twice as old as he really was. He would let himself in, pour a drink, peruse Harry’s music collection. Clean a little, if things were getting dusty. Put some tunes on. Sit back on his couch.

Drink. Contemplate.

The first few times, he did not let himself cry.

He liked going through Harry’s music. It was surprising, how much he invested in it. Harry had records, CDs, and a digital music player. He had a truly impressive amount of music, in genres Eggsy had never heard, and some genres he would have never pegged Harry to be a fan of. He liked to listen and imagine Harry, here in the living room, listening as well. He liked to think about Harry moving around his house, maybe humming under his breath to a familiar tune.

The first few times, Eggsy did not let himself cry. Mostly, he felt too tired and too empty to do much but sit and listen.  

But once, he had the gall to put some old crooner, someone he’d never heard of, on the turn-table. And when he’d listened to the record in full, when it ended and the needle scratched tonelessly over the vinyl, Eggsy blinked, and tasted salt on his lips. He was crying.

And he was hard.

He didn’t really think about it. He just undid his trousers, and slipped a hand beneath his pants. Gripped himself. Made fast work of it.

He was tired. It was quick and dirty and he hadn’t gotten off truly since that tryst with Tilde. He was run ragged, and emotional, and it was only a physical response. It was just a wank. It had nothing to do with anything.

                                             

He did it a few more times. Four, maybe five, before Harry Hart walked into Kingsman good as new.

 

 

 

 **III.**     

Harry does explain himself, in due course.

He sits Eggsy down, almost immediately after he is finished having his meeting with Merlin. It seems important to Harry that he do so. He steers Eggsy into an empty office at Kingsman, makes Eggsy park it in a dusty office chair, and explains himself fully. How he woke up in a Kentucky hospital with a massive headache and a glancing bullet wound that, for such a show of blood, barely _glanced_ off the exterior of his skull and left everything inside intact. He recounts his recovery, and sending a covert message to Merlin—no one else, just Merlin, and just one word: “Calico”. It’s the code word Merlin had established for agents going into deep cover and requesting all communication be cut. Merlin knew nothing except that Harry was alive. No one knew anything.

But he’s back now. He’s back, alive, no worse for wear except for a ragged wound bursting to life at his temple. Eggsy can’t stop staring at it. It’s terrifying, and also sort of dashingly sexy.

After he explains all this, Harry apologizes. He does it firmly, slowly, as if he’s uncertain that Eggsy will understand.

Eggsy is dazed. He understands. He doesn’t understand. Harry Hart is not dead, but wearing street clothes, a black turtleneck, faded black boots and fucking _jeans_. Harry Hart is not dead, but has a day-old beard growth and a slight tan that can’t have been caught in England.

Eggsy wants to punch him in his handsome fucking face.

But he just nods, with a calm that he must have borrowed from someone else, and says, “I understand, Harry.”

 

 

Harry sets up in that house again, the very day he returns.

Eggsy buries his key at the bottom of his sock drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been writing a lot of porn lately . . . and kind of been getting side-tracked by it. I mean, porn is fun to write, but I know that I write better when not focused on smut. So, you have this. Not particularly remarkable, but thoughtful.


	2. IV, V, VI

 

 **IV.**  

Eggsy does not have a problem.

This is only because Harry Hart is not a problem, but a person, and Eggsy has more or less gained some control over himself.

For example: he no longer spends his evenings wanking in Harry’s abode.  

. . . mainly because Harry there, in the evenings, to occupy it.

Eggsy knows this for a fact because sometimes he and JB go on walksies after their evening meal. Eggsy’s house is just a few blocks from Harry’s, and there’s a nice little garden on that block that JB likes to sniff around in, so he’s really not going out of his way or nothing.

Sometimes Eggsy just walks past, casually, slowly. Sometimes he stops to look up at the lit windows of Harry’s house and watch for silhouettes while JB wanders in circles around his ankles. Sometimes it’s all quiet on the street. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear the faint sounds of music coming from within.

He thinks about all the late hours he spent in that house. He wonders if Harry’s checked his liquor stock, or noticed that some of his records weren’t put back in their proper place, a result of Eggsy’s drunken straightening up. 

He wonders what Harry is doing, in that house all alone.

When he begins to think about the soft, cream-colored sofa, he abruptly whistles at JB and they continue on down the street.

 

 

 

 **V.**  

He’s become ultra-sensitive to Harry.

Specifically, to Harry’s touch.

Not that he wasn’t before . . . well, before Harry had not-died. It’s just that, now, he kind of knows _why_ , which makes it that much more distracting.

Eggsy had never seriously considered that he might be attracted to blokes. There had been so few decent ones in his life, none of ‘em had really held much interest. Sure, there were attractive guys in the Marines, but they were in the _Marines_ , and sex hadn’t really been on his brain much.

When he’d first seen Harry Hart, he had been mildly intrigued, but he hadn’t registered it as being _interested_. Even when he’d gotten a semi after watching Harry dispatch the goon squad, he wasn’t really sure what it meant . . . ish. Maybe he had and just didn’t really know how to deal with it.

Point in case, it wasn’t until he had started despoiling Harry’s couch on the reg that he figured out he might be a bit queer.

_A bit queer for a dead guy. Fantastic._

Except, now Harry wasn’t dead. He was walking around Kingsman in sleek, expensive suits that made him look fuckable a thousand ways to Sunday, his long purposeful strides and soft brown eyes and sharp mouth and even sharper wit and fuck, yeah, Eggsy was pretty much gone for him.

He’s able to control his general gaga most of the time. Over the course of a few weeks, he’s gotten accustomed to the fact that the man who essentially gave him a new life is not deceased, that he is just fine, and actually very _fine_ , but they’re colleagues and mentor and mentee, so that’s not on. He can talk to Harry without staring or flushing, even though sometimes Harry looks at him with an expression that seems to hold more than simple affection.

(That might be wishful thinking. Probably is.)

But when Harry touches him, he can’t help his response. When they brush shoulders, Eggsy’s pulse quickens with ridiculously hopeful excitement. Sometimes Harry places a hand in the small of Eggsy’s back when leading him out of a room, and this causes something to warm in Eggsy’s belly.

He loves it. He hates it. He feels like a dog.

On the days that Harry touches him, Eggsy always gives extra tummy rubs to JB.

 

 

           

 **VI.**  

He has a couch of his own. Comes standard with the fancy house, he imagines.

Kingsman was generous, in that he got a place for his mum and sis, and then one for himself. Both houses are cozy, just enough room without being cramped, and furnished tastefully (he assumes, he’s not as knowledgeable as most about these things). His mum and sis live over near Belgravia, and his place is closer to Savile Row. It’s easier, not living together; he doesn’t have to explain his odd hours, his random “business trips” or the various injuries he sustains. He has seldom known what it is like to come home alone.

It’s nice, actually. He enters his domicile after a long day, and doesn’t have to worry about anyone but JB, who gives one or two happy yips when he hears the keys clatter in the lock. He putters around. Makes dinner. Watches random, crap tellie. Reads. Works out. Every now and then, Roxy will come over and they have beers (or wine, if she provides) over board games that neither of them have played since they were wee. He trounces her savagely; she returns the favor when they switch to cards.

He has a couch. He tries not to spend any of his down time on it.

It’s the weirdest fucking association to make, he knows. The couches aren’t even similar. Eggsy’s is modern, dark shiny leather with brass embellishments near the feet. Harry’s is long, soft, cream-colored, comfy, everything a sofa really should be. Inviting. The kind of furniture you would cuddle up with someone else on. Big blanket thrown over both of you, fire in the grate—the works.

He feels like a pervert. He sits in the large comfy chair catty-corner to the couch and sips on his brandy while JB hops up onto the leather, scraping it lightly with his claws.

He swills his drink, takes another draft. He clenches his teeth. It’s no good.

How did he do it? he wonders. How did he sit there, crying, like a fucking kid, and think it was okay to pull himself off to the memory of his dead mentor? In _what world_ was that acceptable behavior?

Christ. He had said Harry’s _name._

He hasn’t wanked in weeks. Somehow, when Harry was dead, it was just fine to close his eyes and lay out on Harry’s sofa in Harry’s house with Harry’s music and his fucking hooch and pretend. And now that the man was living, breathing, walking, talking right before his bleary fucking eyes, he felt sick with himself.

He hasn’t wanked in weeks. Hasn’t wanted to. Feels too disgusted with himself.

 

 

In some small, selfish, secret part of his brain, he almost _(almost)_ wishes that Harry had stayed dead.

Maybe then, it wouldn’t hurt quite this much.


	3. VII, VIII, IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update. There is another 3-part chapter after this, and then one full chapter. So 4 more parts in total to post. :)

 

 **VII.**  

Roxy is the one who brings it up.

They are sitting in the bleachers in one of the third-floor gyms, slurping post-workout protein smoothies that Roxy whipped up and watching the floor. A couple of regular agents are off at one end playing hoops, but it’s the action up close that they are keeping an eye on.

Merlin and Harry have donned white jackets, trousers, and masks, and are fencing sabre. So far, they’ve had ten bouts, and it’s a five-five tie. Eggsy and Roxy have been watching, shouting gamely and rooting for each combatant in turn. Eggsy tries not to, but he finds himself watching the white-clad, masked figure that is Harry more closely than he ought.

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Eggsy all but inhales a piece of uncrushed ice from the smoothie he’s drinking, just as Merlin makes a quick sharp lunge, hitting Harry’s _lame_ in the left breast before he can properly parry, and making the monitor beep. Eggsy coughs while the point is tallied, and the fencers retreat to _en guard_ in the middle. Roxy pats his back apologetically.

“Don’t be daft, Rox,” Eggsy says hoarsely, fighting the urge to wipe at his watering eyes. “He’s old enough to be my da.”

At this, Roxy snorts loudly, and it causes both masked heads to swivel in her direction. She just shrugs and waves them off, and they turn back to one another.

“Okay,” she says as they begin another bout. Merlin advances twice, and stomps his foot loudly on the next one, trying to fake Harry out; but Harry dances with him easily, unruffled. “He’s _just_ old enough to be your father, and besides: he’s fit as fuck, and he can get it any day of the week.”

The monitor buzzes, but the real hit was on the thigh, and no point was scored. The fencers retreat and take up positions again. As soon as the referee (Arthur’s secretary, Kay) gives the word, they’re at it again, the sound of metal on metal interspersed with silence and the chirp of shoes skidding across high-polish wood.

Eggsy recovers his normal breathing, watching the two men go at it. “What makes you think I like blokes?”

Rox sips her smoothie, looking at him curiously. “Don’t you?”

Harry scores, and Merlin swears. Eggsy puts his smoothie down on the bleacher seat next to him, props his feet up and folds his arms over them, resting his chin on his forearms. “Not really.”

“Huh,” is all Roxy says in reply. They both watch as Merlin and Harry remove their masks, revealing two sweaty, smiling faces. They meet in the middle and shake hands, like proper gents. Eggsy can’t help but watch Harry, who is grinning like Eggsy’s never seen, skin flushed and shiny with perspiration, hair tousseled from the mask and falling over his scar. _Fucking beaut._

“You should ask him out.”

Eggsy is about to tell her a variety of things that amount to a very polite “ _piss off”_ when suddenly, as if sensing that he’s under scrutiny, Harry looks up into the bleachers. Catches Eggsy’s gaze.

He smiles, a flash of teeth that makes him look young and reckless.

If Eggsy weren’t already sitting, he might go weak at the knees.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says instead, giving Harry a lopsided grin. “Maybe.”

 

 

 

 **VIII.**  

The thing is, smiles from Harry are getting to be just as bad as touches: sometimes he can take them in stride, sometimes they throw him for a complete loop, common sense and presence of mind waving airily at him as they fly out the nearest window. In this particular instance, he wasn’t really agreeing to Roxy; he just wasn’t paying attention.

Because, smitten as he is, Eggsy has absolutely no intention of really asking Harry out.

Which is probably why Harry beats him to it.

Sort of.

He’s in his office (and it’s weird that he even has one because he tries to spend as little time in it as possible) writing up a report from the mission he had completed not an hour ago. It had been an unprecedented success, given the difficulty of the assignment; and even though he’d gotten ample congrats from Merlin, Roxy, Gwain and Ector, ending the day by writing his brilliant performance into a dry report seems rather . . . anticlimactic.

Truth be told, he’s mostly just disappointed that Harry hasn’t paid him a visit since his return.

(He’d mope about it, but that’s just pathetic.)

He’s typing up justification for his bullet expenditure when a knock comes down upon the door. He is just distracted enough to refrain from looking up when he calls “come in!”

“I am told you are to be congratulated.”

It’s actually sort of funny, how hard his heart jumps up against his ribcage. Funny, but painful. He looks up to see Harry leaning in his doorway, dressed in a light grey glen plaid number with a dark, midnight blue tie. He looks good.

 _Very_ good. Eggsy is glad to be sitting down.  

When Harry’s words finally catch up to his brain, Eggsy’s neck colors a little, in pride and a cocktail of other emotions probably not worth examining. His back also goes ramrod straight, because he knows Harry dislikes slouching. “Uh, thanks,” he says lamely, and wants to kick himself because, god, that's _real_ smooth.

Harry blinks. “I haven’t congratulated you yet.”

“Oh.” _Shit._ Eggsy can feel his ears turn pink. He lowers his gaze to stare at the inky fabric of Harry’s tie. “Uh. . . .” _and the award for most fuckin’ articulate Valmont goes to. . . ._

“I thought I might do it over dinner.”

Eggsy’s train of thought halts with a screech. He can almost hear the crunch of metal from the resulting pile-up. He has to blink twice before he can speak again.

“What?”

The question was blurted out, most unartfully at that. Harry was now tilting his head, a slightly amused glint in his eye.

“Dinner. If you have no other plans this evening.”

“I—uh—yes. _Yeah_.” And Christ, he must be tired, or jetlagged, or _something_ because he sounds like a right idiot.

“Good. I’ll pick you up. Be ready by half seven.”

 

 

 

 **IX.**  

It’s not a date.

He has to keep reminding himself that, throughout the evening. Not a date, not a date, _not a fucking date._

Not that he would be able to tell if it _was_ , since he’s never actually been on a date.

That is, he’s taken girls to the cinema with the intention of necking and groping in the back row for the duration of the film, but this definitely isn’t that.

For one, Eggsy had fussed with his appearance until the last possible minute before Harry pulled up in the sleek black Kingsman car. And he had been twitchy as fuck all the way to the fancy restaurant where Harry led him inside, wined and dined him in a manner that could be considered lavish, and ordered champagne with a wink across the table that had Eggsy’s heart thumping like a headboard in a brothel. He’s rather thankful, multiple times throughout the evening, that the napkins are made out of cloth, or he would have torn his to shreds.

It’s weird. He starts out the evening a bit uncomfortable, a hell of a lot of unsure, wondering what exactly this is. This Not-Date.

But Harry is all playful banter, gently rolled eyes and small, private smiles. And, eventually, Eggsy can’t help but fall into it, feel at ease with it. It begins to feel natural, almost effortless, being out with Harry in such a casual manner. He’s eating it up.

Dinner is over too soon. Harry pays, and reprimands Eggsy with a single look when he sees the younger man doubtfully eyeing the check.

Eggsy lowers his eyes, says “thank you”, and he wants it to mean more than that. He wonders if Harry can tell.

 

 

Harry invites Eggsy to his flat for a nightcap before he returns Eggsy home.

Eggsy is full and sated, and just a _tiny_ bit tipsy from the wine and the champagne at dinner. He’s lying back against his seat in the car and has his head turned to the side so he can look at Harry in full regal profile. Streetlights illuminate the inside of the car at odd moments, and there’s a jazzy station playing in the background. To Eggsy, Harry Hart looks soft and relaxed, even in his sharp dinner jacket, and so very fucking kissable—

He can imagine it. He can envision going back to Harry’s place. Harry would fix them drinks and Eggsy would wander about, thumbing through the music collection and marveling aloud as if he hasn’t gone through them before. Harry would hand him his drink, tell him to make himself comfortable. Eggsy would sit down on Harry’s long, plush couch, really sink into it, sip at his drink while Harry put on some soft, slow tunes. Harry would come back into view, tie unfastened. He would sit down next to Eggsy, making the cushions dip with his weight. He would sit close. He would—

 

 

Eggsy yawns his declination. He is tired.

So he says.  


	4. X, XI, XII

**X.**  

It is not his only victory in the field. As the weeks turns into months, he accumulates several. However, it is inevitable that, with so many victories, he will meet occasionally with turns of defeat.

He can deal with this, the idea of defeat. He had dealt with the worst kind, when he thought Harry was dead. That defeat was incomparable, and any following it would pale considerably.

Emotionally inconsequential, however, did not necessarily translate into physically inconsequential; because, in Kingsman, defeat generally means loss of life and limb. Or at least a nice long recuperation in the infirmary.

 

Eggsy has fitful, hot-sandy dreams of being shot.

He wakes up hurting everywhere, and considers that he might not have been dreaming.

 

 

**XI.**  

He rouses slowly.

There is pressure on his abdomen, constricting and sweaty and itchy. He also feels pressure upon his right hand, though this is softer, smoother, and dry.

Opening his eyes takes him a few tries. When he finally gets them open, everything is much too bright, a white watery blur.

There is a mostly-black blur directly to his right, and it begins to stir just as Eggsy tries to move his head to see better.

“Eggsy?”

The Blur sounds familiar. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but no sound comes out; his throat is painfully dry.

He is aware of the pressure on his right hand leaving as The Blur—which is actually coming into sharper focus and starting to look more like a person— moves, twists itself. When it twists back it leans over him, and Eggsy gets a heady whiff of the most unforgettable cologne he’s ever smelled.

_Harry?_

A piece of plastic—a straw—is pressed to his lips, and he opens his mouth obligingly, taking a few careful sips to wet his parched throat. The water is lukewarm, but like a balm. The straw is pulled away and Eggsy wets his lips, blinking frantically to clear away the rest of the bleariness.

Harry, now in almost clear focus, sits back in the chair he has pulled up next to Eggsy’s bed. He is wearing a black suit whose crease has long since worn out of it. His hair is imperfect, disarrayed as if he had been repeatedly running a hand through it in frustration. There are dark circles under his eyes, and the veins in the whites of them stand out, making them pink. And, as Eggsy looks closer, he can see tiny little pin-pricks of red along Harry’s eyelids, and on the skin just under his brow. They’re the sort of little dots Eggsy used to get, when he was little and trying his hardest not to cry.

He looks an absolute wreck.

And Eggsy, because he was born with his foot in his mouth instead of a silver spoon, croaks:

“Oi. Who died, bruv?”

Harry looks at him. He looks for a long moment, bloodshot brown eyes wide.

And then, he laughs.

The edges of his eyes crinkle into crow’s feet, and his mouth turns up revealing a smile that makes him look all of twenty years younger. He laughs, blinking and wiping at his eyes; he puts a hand over his mouth but it doesn’t conceal the way his cheeks have pinked, or the laugh-lines around his eyes.

_He’s gone barmy_ , Eggsy thinks, even as a strange sort of giddiness wells up inside him. _Harry Hart has finally lost it._

He’s been shot, so it hurts; but Eggsy laughs too.

 

 

**XII.**  

Recovery is easily Eggsy’s least favorite part of the job. For any agent, accustomed to running around and being the middle of the action, getting side-lined due to physical injury was maddening. It makes Eggsy twitchy in ways he didn’t think were possible.

The machinery that felled him had been, to the best of Eggsy’s memory, something akin to a beefy shotgun. Now, as Kingsman suits were impermeable to small metal projectiles, the bullet did not go through the suit; however, a weapon of such brute force used at close range (and it _had_ been close; there had been barely a meter between Eggsy and the end of the barrel) was bound to cause some damage. Eggsy sustained two cracked ribs, one broken, and some internal bleeding from the impact. He is fitted with a cast to prevent him from moving his torso much, but he still winces at any movement that makes use of his abs and obliques.

After Eggsy wakes up, Harry calls for a Chris-Cringle lookalike in a white coat; the man relates (to the both of them) that Eggsy will need to be an inpatient for at least a week or two. The broken ribs are not concerning, but he needs monitoring so that it can be assured his internal hemorrhaging isn’t hiding any other damage.

Eggsy nods and gives a small smile, even while he feels something akin to panic rising in his gut. Stay here, in this ward, for a week? For two? It’s so fucking ridiculous, but he feels the corners of his eyes prick with tears.

He feigns a sneeze to hide it— and immediately regrets the decision when his abdomen gives a painful twinge. His eyes water for real at the pain.

A warm familiar hand settles on his back, as if to stay the ache. In this, Eggsy allows himself a moment of weakness: he leans into the touch, and he lets himself feel disappointed when it is finally pulled away.

 


	5. XIII, XIV, XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is getting out of hand, help

**XIII.**

There is one upside to recovery, Eggsy discovers: he gets to spend more time with Harry.

Whereas before he would see Harry in passing or during meetings, Eggsy sees Harry almost every day during his recuperation. He brings lunch, usually, and sits with Eggsy awhile even after they’ve finished eating. They talk, Eggsy prattling on to hide his nervousness, making a lewd comment or two that has Harry smirking despite himself.

It baffles Eggsy, at first. It makes him nervous. His heart trips over its beat every time Harry walks through the door. Eggsy watches with an unprecedented diligence as Harry sets their lunch down, and pulls up a chair next to Eggsy. He always picks the same one, dark and elegant wooden frame with an off-white cushion, decorated with water scenes embroidered in blood red.

Eggsy watches as Harry removes his jacket and drapes it over the chair back. He then rolls up his sleeves in two precise fold-overs, exposing just past his wrists. He sits down and sets up their lunch, talking to Eggsy all the while in low, soothing tones.

Eggsy doesn’t get it. It is one thing for a mentor to bring a wounded tutee lunch and company, but this is somewhat more complicated. It _feels_ more complicated. Harry smiles easily, but his eyes remain shadowed and there is a grim cinch that will not leave his mouth.

And Eggsy may be wounded, but he tries.

He tries.

 

Both of them mostly ignore Eggsy’s heart monitor, which begins blinking more rapidly than before Harry entered the room.

 

 

 

**XIV.**

 

Harry is, of course, not the only one who comes to call.

Roxy visits in the afternoon almost every day until a mission orders her away. Percival, who had accompanied Eggsy on the mission that felled him, also makes an appearance, and gives Eggsy kind words and a trademark solemn smile. Merlin usually drops by in the mid-morning and brings with him JB.

Near the end of Eggsy’s infirmary stay, Merlin comes knocking while Harry is still there.

Harry is sitting in what Eggsy has begun to refer to as Harry’s chair. (Even when he’s not sitting in it, it seems to convey a certain . . . _Harry-ness_ ). He is snorting at something Eggsy said (definitely _not_ a gentlemanly behavior, which is probably why Eggsy can’t help feeling prideful when he gets Harry to do it) when there is a knock at the door, followed by an excited yip.

Both Harry and Eggsy turn to see the door cracking open and letting an excited ball of fur scramble into the room. As JB runs up to the edge of Eggsy’s bed and attempts to jump up, the form of Merlin follows, stepping slowly into the room. The two older men acknowledge each other, but Eggsy is too preoccupied with JB to notice.

While Eggsy is cooing at the pug, trying to encourage him to jump up onto the bed, Harry suddenly stands up. He bends to scoop up JB (who is still a puppy and looks small in Harry’s large hands) and deposits the pug gently on the bed before straightening again. He looks down at Eggsy.

“Now that reinforcements have arrived, I will take my leave.”

Eggsy has barely got his mouth open to protest before Harry is across the room and has a hand on the door.

As Eggsy watches, Merlin catches Harry’s gaze and they exchange a look. Oddly, it makes Harry give a small, almost inaudible sigh and shake his head once before slipping through the door.

Eggsy, who has a lapful of squirming puppy, looks after him, perplexed.

After a moment, Merlin extricates himself from where he’s been leaning like a shadow against the wall and comes to stand behind Harry’s chair. He watches Eggsy play with JB idly, a pensive expression on his serious features. He looks as though he wants to say something.

Instead, he calls for tea.

 

 

 

**XV.**

 

“He is very fond of you, you know.”

This is the first thing Merlin has said in fifteen whole minutes while waiting for, preparing, and then proceeding to drink with agonizing slowness his tea.

Oblivious to the sudden erratic thumping of his human’s heart, JB happily nibbles on one of Eggsy’s fingers. Eggsy swallows because his throat has gone instantaneously dry; he looks up in surprise. “I . . . know?”

Merlin narrows his eyes. It’s not mean, just piercing. Considering.

“No,” he says finally, “I don’t think you do.”

“What?”

Merlin sets down his cup on the table beside him. He rests his now-empty hands on the back of Harry’s chair and serves Eggsy a level stare.

“He doesn’t have many people, Eggsy. You have your family, Kingsman, and possibly a few friends outside. He doesn’t. For as long as I’ve known him, Harry Hart does not keep people close. Being fond is not a luxury he often affords himself. Just keep that in mind.”

“Makes dying that much easier, right?”

The words are a sudden wash of bitterness in his mouth, and they’ve hit the air before he can stop himself. He feels instantly chagrined. Merlin’s dark eyes widen slightly.

“That still bothers you.”

And, god, Eggsy had promised himself he wouldn’t think about this, would lock it away forever and never poke around in it again, but he’s suddenly back at Harry’s flat, at night, full of drink and anger and longing and lust, crying and palming himself as he listens to the skip of the record player after the sad old crooner has sung their last note. The memory is terrifyingly close, yet also seems distantly far, and it's so messed up and pathetic it makes him _cringe._

“It’s fine,” he says thickly. Shit, his eyes have gone blurry. He refrains from wiping them, just blinks rapidly. A thought suddenly occurs to him, and his piss-poor brain-to-mouth filter once again fails him spectacularly as he asks:

“Merlin, is Harry queer?”

It's a wonder Merlin doesn't spit out his tea-- Eggsy would have. But, then again, Merlin has always seemed to be the epitome of stoic self-control. When Eggsy dares to look up, he sees that Merlin has done nothing more than raise his eyebrows in surprise. Eggsy fights down his blush.

After a moment, Merlin responds by answering with a candid tone but cryptic phrasing.  

“I’m not sure that Harry is anything.”

Eggsy can feel his brows knit in confusion. JB squirms in his lap. “You mean he doesn’t—”

“I think the better question is, what are _you_?”

The question catches him completely off-guard and he splutters: “Why does that – I’m not—I mean, I’ve never . . .” He pauses, and his brow knits up as he tries to parse out what he means to say. What _does_ he mean? How much is there to tell?

He thinks about his conversation with Roxy, now months ago, and her almost nonchalant directive.

_You should ask him out._

Christ. If it were that simple.

“I think I’m . . .” he hazards, reaches, but in the end can’t come up with the balls, “— confused.”

“Lord, have _mercy_ ,” Merlin mutters as he leaves. 


	6. XVI, XVII, XVIII

**XVI.**

 

The full two weeks go by before Eggsy is pronounced healthy enough to leave the infirmary.

The cast comes off and is replaced by tight wrappings. He is still suspended from taking on assignments until his ribs have completely healed, and he’s told to be careful working out; but these are the only stipulations his doctor has before giving him the stamp of approval.

The first thing Eggsy does is text Roxy, who responds almost immediately with a smiley emoticon and a promise to see him soon. The second thing he does is change into the civvies they brought him, because fuck hospital pajamas. He’s just pulled into a shirt and is about to bend over to put on his trainers when Harry walks in.

Eggsy’s smile drops like a dead-weight when he realizes that Harry is almost deliberately not looking at him.

And he can’t explain how, but he knows immediately that something is wrong, even as Harry carefully takes the trainers from his hands and quietly requests him to sit back down on the bed.

Eggsy does so numbly, a strange sense of panic making his guts roil, because this isn’t normal. Harry doesn’t act this way. What’s going on?

He wants to ask, but Harry is pulling up a chair, _that_ chair, and sitting himself down in front of Eggsy. Without ceremony, he reaches down and gently hoists up one of Eggsy’s socked feet, hand on the back of Eggsy’s ankle. It’s with a furious blush that Eggsy realizes what Harry is doing when Harry slips Eggsy’s foot into the plain white trainer.

“The doctor may have pronounced you well,” murmurs Harry, securing the trainer and meticulously tying up the laces, “but I’d rather you not aggravate remaining injuries by bending over, if it can be helped.”

Eggsy is supposed to make some sardonic comment about Harry following him around to tie his shoes like a nanny; but what comes out of his mouth instead is, “S’all right bruv, I’m not generally the bending-over type.”

And Eggsy can’t quite hate himself for saying as much because Harry looks up at him, directly in the eye for the first time since entering the room. He’s wearing the same expression as when Eggsy had made a reference to _My Fair Lady_ , all those months ago.

“Oh. I see.”

And he should stop there, but he can’t deny himself the reward of seeing Harry’s eyebrows climb up even higher when Eggsy shrugs and reiterates, “Generally.”

Harry stares at him for a moment longer. Then he drops his head and puts his attention back to Eggsy’s trainers, though Eggsy can still see the curve of a bemused smirk at the corner of Harry’s mouth.

 

 

 

**XVII.**  

By the time Harry gets up to leave, the atmosphere between them has changed. It no longer feels as though something is amiss, but there is still a certain tension. When Harry gets up to leave, he looks at Eggsy only briefly. It would sting, but Harry also places a hand on Eggsy’s head, and his fingers make the barest trace through Eggsy’s hair.

Eggsy is sitings there on the bed looking after Harry, scalp tingling pleasantly, the beginnings of arousal bubbling in his gut, when he casts an errant glance around the room and happens to land on the chair.

He thinks about it for a minute.  

 

 

He puts the chair in a corner of his living room where it is in plain view but unlikely to be sat upon. Like a decorative piece. He spends a while positioning it, right next to a window where the afternoon light will fall upon it and illuminate the elegant curves of wood, and the blood red patterns sewn into the creamy cushion.

That evening, Eggsy takes off all of his clothes before sliding into bed. With nothing but the sheets against his bare flesh, he thinks about that chair, about Harry sitting in the chair. He thinks about sitting in Harry’s lap; a million other filthy images follow, unbidden, and he’s writhing in his own hand before he knows it. It’s not the first time he’s touched himself since his last stint on Harry’s sofa, but it is the first time he’s allowed himself to think of Harry. To think of him _explicitly_. To think about what it would feel like to be splayed over Harry’s lap, with his strong, dexterous hands over Eggsy’s body, his voice purring low and soft in Eggsy’s ear.

Eggsy comes hard and fast, and lies in bed panting long after he’s spent. His body relaxes just as a fresh wave of guilt begins to twist his stomach up into knots. He lies there, breathing evenly through his nose and staring up at the ceiling, willing the feeling away.

And, eventually, bit-by-bit his stomach uncoils and his brain no longer buzzes like an angry hive. Because he won’t feel guilty about this, he simply won’t.

He falls asleep, and he is relieved not to dream.

 

 

The next morning, his ribs twinge something awful when he bends over to lace up his trainers.

But he feels okay. Feels _good_.

It’s enough to go on, he decides.

 

 

 

**XVIII.**  

 

“It hurts, you know.”

“What?”

It’s the third full day Eggsy has been home and he has invited Roxy over. He does this partly because he needs her company, and partly because he needs to do something other than wank.

(Consequently, he’s been wanking a lot, and it’s anything but perfunctory. His body, having been on something like a sexual hiatus, thinks it has a lot of catching up to do. It’s like that tug the night of his return flipped a switch: he is randy _all_ the time.)

Roxy, pushes herself back into Eggsy’s couch and takes a sip of her wine. It’s a cabernet sort of night, apparently. Eggsy knows only what he needs to about wine, but he enjoys the dryness of the one Roxy has picked. The brand is called “Drama” and the wine is “subtle, smoky, and mature” according to the label.

(He can’t help but wonder if she did that on purpose.)

“Is it because of the age difference? Or because he’s your boss?”

Eggsy swills his wine around in his glass, willing himself to see the legs and contemplating her question. Oddly enough, none of these sensible things much entered into his mind when he thought about Harry. It was more a general sense of _cannot have_ and _do not deserve_. And that sounds utterly ridiculous but _feels_ very valid, so he says nothing to that effect.

“Not really.”

Roxy sighs and props her feet up on his coffee table. One of her hands splays out against the dark leather of his sofa. “He likes you, you know.”

Eggsy gives a little sigh of his own and brings the wine to his lips. Talking about this with someone other than JB is probably doing him a world of good; but he’s honestly done with the topic. It makes his head hurt.

Fortunately, Roxy is nothing if not perceptive, and seems to sense this. She taps a finger against her glass and glances across the room, mouth curling into a disbelieving grin.

“I can’t believe you stole that chair.”

Eggsy follows her gaze over to the corner of his living room, where the aforementioned piece of furniture sits, all inconspicuous, straight-backed, red-embellished glory.

“I know,” he says good-naturedly. “I’m fucked.”

 

 

They finish off the wine, but Roxy insists he keep the bottle so that he can go purchase more for himself.

“It’s one of Harry’s favorites,” she says impishly, just before she gets into a cab.


	7. XIX, XX, XXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are nearing the end, my dears. One more chapter to go, and I mean it this time.

**XIX.**

 

There is another reason that Eggsy didn’t tell Roxy about, mostly because he thinks she would laugh at him.

He doesn’t actually think that he’s gay.

Or queer. Or whatever. He’s never had any real inclinations before. That is, he kind of sees that men can be attractive, and he's gotten the occasional woody not the result of a pair of tits, but it's a very back-of-the-mind type of thing. He's never actually _wanted_ a bloke. This thing with Harry could totally be a fluke, some other emotion that has been warped into attraction.

This conclusion seems almost likely. Eggsy conducts “experiments” by watching a few rounds of gay porn to see if it does anything for him. He finds that he’s not that invested in it either way: he’s not aroused or repulsed, if he’s just watching.

But if he watches and thinks about doing those things with Harry. . . .

Well, the evidence makes itself known.

The solid proof comes when he returns to headquarters later that week. He’s just finished showering after a short and easy workout; he is walking out of the stall with nothing but towel around his hips when he nearly collides with someone coming around the same corner.

One of his hands grabs for his towel to keep it from falling; the other reaches out blindly and lands on what appears to be a sweat-slick, well-muscled bicep, which he grips to keep balance.

When he realizes who he’s nearly collided into, his heart makes like dubstep and drops the base.

Eggsy has, admittedly, fantasized quite a bit about Harry; but he’s never seen the man dressed in anything less than a suit, and so the contours of his body are often left up to Eggsy’s imagination. No more, it would seem.

Harry Hart is standing before him, wearing nothing but a part of navy jogging shorts, toned bare chest gleaming with sweat. His hair flops to one side in an uncharacteristic mess, and his handsome face is a bit ruddy from exertion. Almost as if he can’t help it, Eggsy’s eyes dart up and down. Harry Hart is not one bit the flabby older man; he is all lean muscle.

And he currently has a hand on Eggsy’s flank.

Eggsy doesn’t even want to know what color he flushes. He quickly drops his hand away from Harry’s arm and steps back. Harry’s hand falls away, but Eggsy’s skin tingles where it once was.

Harry steps back as well. There’s an odd expression playing around his mouth. It’s as if he’s trying not to smile; or grimace. His eyes have taken on that darkened quality again and are totally unreadable. All of this is making Eggsy extremely uncomfortable.

And, all right, turned on.

“Apologies, Eggsy.”

Eggsy laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound hysterical. “S’good, bruv.” He skirts around Harry, who is standing very still. Eggsy slaps on a grin and gives Harry a mock-salute. “Showers are all yours.”

And, perhaps, if Eggsy were not so desperate to get out of there, he would have noticed the way Harry’s gaze traveled leisurely up and down his barely-covered body as he left.

 

 

He and Roxy have a clandestine lunch that day, and she agrees (sympathetically) that, no, Eggsy doesn’t have to be gay to have a hard-on for Harry Hart.

“The question is,” she says between bites of tuna sandwich, “what are you going to _do_ about it?”

 

 

**XX**.

She’s right, Eggsy realizes. He has to do something about this. He could just wallow forever, but that would be an unnecessary act of masochism and—well, Eggsy’s not really into that.

(At least, he doesn’t think he is.)

So he needs a strategy. A battle plan.

The one he comes up with is fairly straight-forward: figure out if Harry fancies him back. It is the execution of said-plan that presents the problem. Or, it would, if Eggsy wasn’t an utter and complete imbecile— he’s a secret agent, for fuck’s sake. One would think he could come up with something a little cleverer than, oh, just marching up to Harry’s office and planning to ask him point-blank whether he fancied a shag.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know if he’ll actually have the guts to ask _that_ when he finally gets inside Harry’s office; but it is with this in mind that he finds himself marching toward that ornate set of double-doors on the third floor.

He is standing in front of them, about to raise his knuckles to knock, when he hears the voices.    

“I am not planning on anything, Merlin.”

Eggsy lowers his hand. He darts his gaze around the hall--- clear, for a fucking wonder—and leans in to press his ear near the door.                                                                     

“You might consider it,” came Merlin’s rich baritone.

Harry’s reply is mild, almost amused. “Are you encouraging me to become a cradle-robber?”

A scoff. “He’s twenty-six, Harry.”

“Half my age. That is a large gap to overcome. And how do you know that I desire him in any way but the physical?”

At this, there is some muttering from Merlin that Eggsy can’t quite make out; whatever is said, though, makes Harry laugh.

“You’re such a bastard.”

“Pot, kettle. But you really ought to talk to him.”

Harry sighs, quiet but tired. “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

“This whole cold-shoulder bit doesn’t suit you, Harry.” 

“I’m Arthur; it suits me very well. You know, if I were in your position—”

“Why did you bring this up if you’re not going to listen to what I have to say?”

“I brought it up so that you could tell me it was a bad idea—”

From somewhere behind him, there is a cough. 

Eggsy whips around to see Percival and Roxy standing together in the hallway. Roxy has a pained look on her face that seems to sympathize with Eggsy’s predicament but also looks as though she wants to bust out laughing. Percival is, for the most part, stoic as usual, save for his eyebrows, which have crept so far up his forehead they’ve threaded into his hairline.

“Eggsy,” Roxy hisses; yes, she’s definitely stifling giggles.

“I—” Eggsy starts. Behind him, he hears the inner doors of the office creak open and he jumps. “I, err—”

“You were never here.”

Eggsy and Roxy turn at the same time, surprised, to look at Percival. The half of his face that had been showing any emotion has resettled to resemble a koi pond. He gives Eggsy a very level, completely unreadable look. 

Eggsy swallows. “Err— right.” He pries himself away from the door, straightens, and does a mock-salute that would have had his drill-sergeant from the Marines rolling in his grave. “Ta, then?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever walked so quickly in his life. He doesn’t dare turn to see who has exited the office or if they’ve seen him.

 

 

**XXI.**

The day is very long after that.

Eggsy pushes papers around on his desk. He thinks vaguely that it’s ridiculous to have so much physical “paperwork” when everything is digital now, but the thought is vague and it vanishes in moments. He’s distracted. He keeps replaying snippets of the clandestine conversation in his head, looking for meaning in the gaps and lack of context. He thinks about that conversation, and every conversation he’s had before, with Merlin, with Roxy, with Harry. He thinks about Harry, the way he looks at Eggsy, smiles at him. He thinks about the stolen chair sitting in his parlor.

His head is so full trying to make sense of all of these things that he barely notices it when Merlin glides into the room.

To be fair, Merlin isn’t looking at him either. He’s typing away madly on his tablet with one hand. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, merely starts talking, as if picking up from a conversation they were having earlier, “I’ve just confirmed with our contact in El Salvador. They’re ready for us, but you have another priority assignment coming up. I’m sending Ector in your place; seems prudent, as he speaks the language and is more likely to fit in. . . .”

It takes Eggsy a minute to register Merlin’s presence. He blinks slowly away from the blue light of his computer screen; he hasn’t registered what Merlin has said, but instead of asking for clarification, he looks up with a dawning sense of realization, and asks:

“Merlin, does Harry fancy me?”

“. . . having R&D design a new—.” Merlin stops dead in the middle of his sentence. He too finally looks up from his tablet and registers the presence of human life.

Eggsy watches his eyes go just a bit wide; then his mouth forms a line so thin it almost disappears. When his lips open again, they do so to wrap slowly around acerbic syllables.

" _Sod. Off.”_

Eggsy blinks. “What?”

In a sudden show of ire, Merlin growls and shoves his tablet under his arm. “Sod _right off._ Have you been paying attention to anything I’ve said? No, of course not, no one in this agency bloody listens me—”

He’s out the door again before Eggsy can scarcely open his mouth.  


	8. XXII, XXIII, XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my lord, I know I said only one more chapter but I squeeze it into two. The last one is already written, promise! Just needs editing. It'll be up this evening, I bet. :)

**XXII.**  

Three days after, Eggsy still hasn’t worked up any sort of nerve or plan.

Four days after, Ector nearly comes home in a body bag.

They are in a meeting when the call comes in. It’s the eeriest thing in the world: ten of them, real and holographic, are sitting around the long table while Merlin takes them through the new toys R&D has afforded them. Eggsy is tired, bored, and about to fall asleep when he hears the sound.

It’s high, like a boatswain whistle, and comes from Merlin’s watch of all places. Merlin stops talking abruptly and stares at the analog face, as if it will tell anything but the time. The rest of the room goes utterly still.

Then, from all around the table, the same noise. A chorus of high whistles.

Merlin whips out his tablet; from where Eggsy is sitting, he can see a bright red alert message.

Arthur—Harry—has stood up from his seat, and this draws even more attention. He is looking at Merlin, expression steeled and eyes unnervingly still.

Merlin looks up.

“Agent down.”

 

Harry and Merlin depart the room in a whirlwind. The other agents either dissipate or swiftly file out. There is some unspoken code to this that Eggsy is not familiar with, though Percival, before he leaves, takes the time to rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

The way Eggsy hears it later, an extraction team is sent in, just in the nick of time. Ector is sequestered to the infirmary for an extended stay: battered, but alive.

And Eggsy doesn’t know Ector well, doesn’t know anything about the circumstances; but he does know this:

It could have been him.

That was supposed to be his mission. Merlin gave it to Ector. It could have been Eggsy.

 

 

 

**XXIII.**  

           

That was all they were. Underneath the fine armor, the tailored suits, the fancy gadgets and training. Completely mortal. Agents died, just like normal people.

Eggsy wasn’t afraid of death. He was afraid of pain, the way most people were afraid of pain; but not afraid of dying.

He was afraid of pain, but even more so, of causing pain. Of leaving people behind.

His mum. Daisy. JB. Roxy.

Eggsy was young, but he wasn’t invincible. Death was the inevitable end. It just took something like this to make him see:

He didn’t want to die without telling Harry.

He didn’t want to die without telling him _everything_.

 

It is this kind of maudlin thinking that leads Eggsy to take JB on a lonesome late-night walksie. He starts to head for the park, but his feet have other ideas. They take him down a few blocks a few turns, and he’s suddenly standing in front of Harry’s flat.

The lights are on; he can hear music playing, and he thinks it might be the old vinyl French record that made him cry so hard he nearly puked. He is trying to remember the singer’s name when the front door suddenly opens, spilling yellow light out into the dark.

“Eggsy?”

Eggsy squints. His stomach turns. At his feet, JB makes a noise.

Harry is standing in the doorway, looking haggard. He is still in his work clothes, but his jacket is gone, as is his tie; his collar is unbuttoned, and his hair looks like he’s been running a hand endlessly through it, as if to still his worries. His silhouette, however, has no expression.

A frigid wind whips down the street, pulling at Eggsy’s clothes. He shivers, and JB scoots closer to him.

Harry gives a small, quiet sight that could have been mistaken for a faint gust of wind.

“You had better come inside.”

       

 

  

**XXIV.**  

 

Harry closes the door behind Eggsy and quietly asks him to remove his shoes. Eggsy does so, sort of numbly.  While bending down, he unhooks JB’s leash from his collar. The pug shakes himself once and then trots off to explore another room.

When Eggsy straightens back up, he finds himself being stared at. When he meets Harry’s eyes, the older man gives him a small, weak smile. It’s so uncharacteristic, Eggsy doesn’t know what to say. Harry looks tired, frayed. Maybe a little frail.

Harry turns his back to Eggsy’s scrutiny and begins to trail out of the room, into the parlor. Eggsy watches him, noticing for the first time Harry’s feet: bare but for black socks, footsteps silent and undisturbing.

When Eggsy enters the parlor, Harry has begun busying himself with changing the record. He picks up a CD in a jewel-case and pops it into his sound system. The room fills with the low thrum of base; smooth, sleepy jazz. Both sad and cozy.

There is a fire burning in the grate. Eggsy draws closer to it as Harry begins fixing them drinks. He watches the flames dance, warm tongues licking and swiping at the air. He can feel the heat radiating off of it.

Something cool is pushed into his hand, and Eggsy looks down to see that he is now holding a glass with a finger of scotch.

Harry moves past him, and Eggsy watches as he settles himself into the couch. The Couch. The long, plush, cream-colored couch that he himself had spent many nights wallowing on.

Eggsy takes a fortifying sip of his drink. It burns.

Harry watches him, the shadows in his eyes undulating.

“There’s something you want to tell me.”


	9. XXV, XXVI, XXVII

**XXV.**  

 

“This is about what happened with Ector.”

Eggsy doesn’t answer, just turns the tumbler in his hands.

“Or, this is _because_ of what happened with Ector.”

Eggsy can’t make himself look at Harry, for some reason. He looks over at the fire in the hearth, and sees that JB has settled himself on the rug before the fire. Eggsy brings the tumbler again to his lips.

“Yes. And, no.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eggsy sees Harry gesture for Eggsy to sit.

“We must be very careful with words, Eggsy,” Harry says softly as Eggsy moves and lowers himself on to the couch. There is an arm’s distance between him and Harry, no more. “Sometimes they have just as much weight as the actions they belie.”

Eggsy thinks about this for a moment. Then he opens his mouth:

“I stole the chair.”

When he finally does turn to look at Harry, his mentor’s face has lost some of its graveness, given over instead to perplexity. Harry leans back into the sofa, quirks an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“You know. The one in the outpatient ward? White cushion, red designs. . . .”

Realization dawns on Harry’s face. “Ah.” A pause. “I rather liked that chair.”

“I know. Now you can sit in it when you come to mine.”

Eggsy watches Harry take a drink, and then put his glass down on the coffee table. When he looks back up at Eggsy, there is a ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Do you anticipate me coming there often?”

Eggsy must turn pink or give some indication of his embarrassment (or arousal) because Harry looks almost immediately chagrinned after he says this. He lowers his eyes and begins to apologize. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“Is that a joke?”

Eggsy surprises Harry and himself with his own question. He asks it very seriously, earnestly, and this causes Harry to look back up and consider him for a moment. Eggsy can’t help but think how bloody gorgeous he looks, hair askew, shirt rumpled, one wrist peeking out from an unbuttoned cuff.

“It could be,” Harry says finally, quietly. “If you like.”

“What I’d like is for you to be honest with me.”

“Are you sure? I might request that you return the favor.”

Eggsy turns his face away to stare into the fire. Harry’s words sound like a challenge, and are delivered without teasing. It probably could be a challenge, if Eggsy were anyone else. But he’s tired, tired of keeping things to himself. Eggsy can be honest. Frightfully so.

He takes a deep breath.

“I wanked on your sofa.”

 

 **XXVI.**  

It’s not what Harry expected him to say—hell, Eggsy didn’t expect himself to say it. In his periphery, Eggsy sees Harry’s eyebrows raise and his mouth fall open.

“. . . oh.”

And, because Eggsy doesn’t know what he’s doing and his brain-to-mouth filter is now _completely_ offline, he goes on, like the prat he is.

“You weren’t here, obviously. You were dead . . . I thought you were dead.”

He hears Harry shift on the couch. “I _was_ dead.”

“No, you were slummin’ it in fucking Kentucky.”

“I—”

Eggsy almost slams his glass down on the coffee table and twists to face Harry so sharply he nearly gives himself whiplash. Maybe it’s because of his surroundings, or because they are finally having this conversation, but Eggsy feels it: that old anger, that bone-deep sorrow, that sense of hopelessness, the sort of desperation that makes his eyes prick with tears. His face is hot, and he’s angry and scared and can’t keep himself from saying, “No, just—shut up for a minute, will you? I’m trying to tell you something. I’m trying to tell you that I thought you were dead, and I sat here on this very couch and touched myself and thought about you. Do you know how that made me feel? Do you know how fucking terrified I was?”

And he didn’t think that he’d be able to look Harry in the eye when he said any of this, but here he is. Bright green eyes line up with dark, immutable brown. Harry looks stricken, looks twisted up inside. His mouth is twisting too, as if there is something he both wants and doesn’t want to say. Gently, almost against his better judgement it seems, he reaches out a hand towards Eggsy’s shoulder. “Eggsy—”

Eggsy reaches out too, though, catching Harry’s wrist. For a split second, he isn’t sure what to do with it. Then his body makes up his mind for him.

Eggsy uses Harry’s arm to pull him in, at the same time shifting himself closer. There is maybe a second where he has the very distinct thought that _this is a bad idea_ before he’s kissing Harry.

 

 

**XXVII.**

Harry’s mouth is surprisingly soft. A small noise of surprise escapes from between his lips as Eggsy presses closer. It’s a sweet kiss, chaste. Harry is caught unawares, so his mouth doesn’t open.

Actually, he doesn’t react at all, not at first. There is a very real and terrifying moment when Eggsy has leaned into Harry, keeping his warm lips pressed against Harry’s unmoving ones, and he thinks, _oh god, oh god, I’ve fucked this up, I’ve—_

“Eggsy,” Harry says into the millimeter of space he creates between their mouths, “Eggsy, I—”

But then Harry makes a sound that is so close to a keen it boggles Eggsy’s mind and Harry is _grabbing him by the shirt_ and pulling him closer. And Harry is invested now, there’s no denying: he’s tasting Eggsy, sweetly and hungrily, devouring him like a man who has denied himself food for weeks only to be presented with a feast. Eggsy can feel the desperation in Harry’s fingers, the way their curl around the back of Eggsy’s neck and settle on his hip, and it makes him dizzy because, _god_ , he thought he was the only one—

And Eggsy is in it, so in the moment and just feeling that he doesn’t understand why Harry suddenly pulls away. He just lets out a sound that is definitely a keen and tries to follow; however, Harry holds him back, at arms’ length.

“You’re shaking.”

It’s true; now that he’s no longer pressed up again Harry, Eggsy can feel himself thrumming with adrenaline, quaking. He holds up his hand, and watches it tremble in the flickering fire-light.

“I—” he licks his lips, tastes Harry there. “. . . maybe I am . . . still terrified.”

Harry’s expression is full of concern, but the tensile strength in his arm doesn’t lessen and he keeps the distance between them. Maybe he needs it. Eggsy’s doesn’t want it.

“Why?”

Eggsy closes his eyes.

“It’s just . . .” he bites his lip. There’s nothing for it.

“It’s just, I think I might be a little bit in love with you.”

There: it’s out. He’s said it. Eggsy can’t bear to look, can’t bear to see what is going on in the silence between them; this means that he doesn’t see Harry’s face when he says: —

“That’s unfortunate.”

 _Oh, god._ It stings like a stroke of hot leather on the back of his thighs, stings like Dean’s belt, like his fists, like everyone who told him he was worthless—

“. . . . for me.”

Eggsy’s heart tumbles over a beat. His eyes flash open, and he looks. He _looks,_ even with tears beginning to cloud his vision.

“What?”

“You think you’re in love,” Harry says. He’s a bit blurry now, but his voice is gentle, and he moves forward, bridging some of the space he had previously created. Eggsy feels his warmth, calling to his own tired body.

“You think you’re in love,” Harry repeats. One hand comes up to rest fingers at the shell of Eggsy’s ear. “But I, for one, am absolutely certain that I am utterly gone for you.”

Eggsy wants to cry; he feels that same tightness in his chest, but he’s just too happy to really lose it. A single tear slips down his cheek, and he laughs as a thumb brushes it away.

“I want to punch you in the face,” he says.

Harry looks at him. He smiles, sly, warm, dashing, daring, loving, and fond.

“You might kiss me instead.”

So, Eggsy leans in close, and does just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have come to the end! Thank you all who stayed with this little story. All your comments and kudos have been an inspiration. I hope that we meet again!


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